Turtlenecks and Cardigans
by Cattiechaos
Summary: Turtlenecks and Cardigans, otherwise known as "how a sartorial blunder brings Erik and Charles back together." A post-beach divorce fix-it fic that alternates between crack, hurt/comfort, and fluff; not to be taken too seriously!


Charles owns too many cardigans.

That's really the only thing Erik can think as he stands there, contorted into a ridiculous angle inside Charles' closet. The telepath is ridiculously fastidious with his clothes and catastrophically messy concerning anything else; his button-downs, blazers, dress shirts, suits, and polos are organized according to style, then color, then fabric, patiently hanging in little rows like so many attentive soldiers. Erik is relieved that he can find neither hide nor hair of the truly hideous sea-green monstrosity that Charles insisted was at the pinnacle of fashion; if that cardigan truly was at the pinnacle, it was only so it could throw itself down to its death below.

He'd been rummaging for about ten minutes before hearing the footsteps, and he had barely enough time to throw himself into the closet before Charles entered, speaking animatedly to Hank. Erik still isn't used to seeing the young scientist in his blue furry form, just as he's not used to seeing Charles with a walking stick. It has been two months since "the beach divorce", as Raven calls it – "you even split custody of the kids!" – and Erik's fairly certain that Charles wouldn't respond favorably to finding him in his private quarters. Fortunately he's had the foresight to wear his helmet (even if Raven calls it garish) so that Charles can't sense his presence, and there's nothing for it now but to wait it out.

The actual reason he's here is because he can't find his black turtleneck. Raven swears up and down she hasn't seen it, and Emma fixes him with her frostiest glare when he suggests that maybe she's lost it in the wash, but there is a chance (no matter how slight) that he's left it in Charles' bedroom. He never did get a chance to pack, after all.

In Erik's defense, he really likes that black turtleneck. He was prepared to cut his losses and move on, but turtlenecks are his thing as much as cardigans are Charles', and perhaps (he will deny this if asked) he is looking for an opportunity, no matter how flimsy, to see Charles again.

He had known they were heading toward an inevitable parting of ways, but he _hadn't_ known Charles would get hurt in the process. Erik can't help but think that the idealistic do-gooder should have gotten off scot-free while the misanthropic, careless cynic was the one who had to go through temporary paralysis. Erik's going through some temporary paralysis of his own at the moment, since his foot's starting to fall asleep; he shifts slightly and a navy cardigan falls to the floor with a soft _flump_. Shit.

"Did you hear something?" he hears Charles query, and Erik can practically see him wrinkling his forehead in confusion. How he's missed that forehead wrinkle.

"I don't think so." A pause. "Shall we?"

"Certainly."

Erik realizes he is holding his breath – he hears something being unzipped and disbelief stuns him. They couldn't possibly be about to…? If anything he would have expected that meddlesome CIA agent, but _Hank_?

"Is something the matter?" he hears Hank ask.

"It's just that it's, well – rather large," Charles says apologetically, and Erik almost lost his balance and took out a rack of Oxfords. He can't bear the thought of hiding in the closet like a child while Charles – _his _Charles – and Hank had sex right in front of him, and seeing as he's already cockblocked Hank before, he really has no qualms about doing it again.

He bursts out of the closet. "What the hell is –"

The first thing his mind registers is that Charles is wearing the hideous sea-green cardigan and good God, it is even more awful than he remembers. The second thing is that the two are on the bed, but not in a compromising position – Charles is sitting with his sleeve rolled up and Hank is poised with an alarmingly large syringe in his hand. Charles' eyes look like they are about to fall out of his head and the only thing Erik can think of saying is:

"What are you wearing?"

Charles is deadly silent.

"_That's _what you have to say for yourself?" he says finally, two bright spots of pink appearing on his cheeks. He struggles to compose himself, taking a deep breath and casting Hank an apologetic look. "Could you please…?"

To his credit, Hank doesn't say anything as he leaves, only zips close his satchel – ah, so _that's _what that noise was – and exiting without so much as a parting glance at Erik, and that makes him realize that Charles may not be the only person he's hurt by leaving.

"Well?" Charles demands, fixing him with a steely-eyed glare (not that it's very impressive –Charles has the eyes of a puppy dog.)

Erik clears his throat finally. "I left – I left my turtleneck here." Even as he says the words he is painfully aware of hopelessly, pathetically stupid they sound.

Charles looks at him incredulously. "I beg your pardon?"

"My turtleneck, the black one," Erik says mechanically, and he's thinking _stupid stupid stupid _but he can't stop this train wreck now. "I thought I might've left it here, and I still have the keys to this place and I thought – for God's sake, Charles, _stop looking at me like that._"

"_Why are you here?_" Charles asks, and there is something very disarming in his tone, something that makes Erik hesitate for a fraction of a second.

"_For my turtleneck," _his mind supplies; "for you," he hears himself say.

Charles goes still.

Now that there's nothing left to say, Erik finds that he cannot draw his gaze away from Charles' walking stick, nor the way his left leg sticks out at an awkward angle on the bed, trapped in a metal brace. Charles notices where his eyes fall and his expression changes. "It's not your fault," he says, ever so softly. "It's not even permanent."

"But it could have been," Erik replies, and they are both startled by the amount of controlled rage in his voice. "I am…_so _sorry –"

_That's not what you should be apologizing for_, Erik realizes suddenly, his jaw clenching. _You should be apologizing for leaving him, wounded on a beach, fantasizing about dreams of power and dominance and subjugation. _Had he really been that brutal, that ruthless…that much like Shaw?

"Come home," Charles says lowly, pain thickening his voice. _Come back. You ought to be here beside me, teaching the children how to use their gifts. Apart, we can only do so much; together, we are limitless – you know this. _"Please."

He sees Erik's resolve crack, sees him giving in to what he so desperately wants, because now the pressure of battle is gone and the two months without Charles has taught him that he cannot possibly endure a life permanently without him. He sees Erik lean down to kiss him before closing his eyes, relishing in the way their mouths meet, like old friends after a long and weary battle. He feels the bed sink beside him as Erik lowers himself down, gently arranging himself around Charles, and Charles can't help but smile and let out a breathy little laugh of relief and thanksgiving.

"Let's get you out of this hideous cardigan," Erik growls, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the pale white skin of Charles' neck, his hands reaching for the fabric and pulling it up and over his head. The telepath laughs breathlessly, curling his body around the other man's. "Would you stop it with the bloody cardigan?" he murmurs between gasps, running his palms over Erik's chest. "I'll burn it if it makes you happy; I'd rather have you than it – _mfph._"

When Erik goes to extra lengths to ensure the cardigan is utterly ruined, Charles doesn't mind one bit.

_Epilogue_

A few weeks later they get a package in the mail; there is no return address, but Charles would recognize Raven's handwriting anywhere.

Inside is Erik's black turtleneck.

_Author's Note: This is my first full-length XM:FC fic so constructive criticism is highly appreciated! I realize now that the tone of this piece is ridiculously bipolar, but alas, that's how it wanted to be written. My muse has the attention span of a squirrel on crack :P_


End file.
